The Mongoliad: Book Three

Gansukh.”

“Bah,” Gansukh said, dismissing Tarbagatai’s claim. “It is a good thing to be bad at, don’t you think?”

Tarbagatai managed a weak grin.

Gansukh glanced at the row of ger again. “Shall we try again?” he asked, even though part of him wanted to charge across the river and search for the elusive Munokhoi. “I promise to be less frightened of your magnificent shooting.”

Someone in the crowd groaned noisily, and a voice piped up: “Make him give you his bow if he does it again!”

Gansukh nodded in agreement. “Fair enough. You may have my bow if I am nothing less than virtuous in my shooting.”

Tarbagatai tried to remain aloof, but his gaze lingered overlong on Gansukh’s bow. “I suppose we can try again,” he said.

Gansukh gestured at the crowd. “My opponent will need two more arrows,” he called.

“Only one,” Tarbagatai corrected. He pointed. “I’ll keep that first one.” Tarbagatai’s first shot was dead- center in the nearest target’s red heart.

“Fair enough,” Gansukh said, squinting at the target.

An arrow was provided, and Subegei counted them off again. Gansukh shot slowly, striving for accuracy, and Tarbagatai took care with his shots as well, knowing that Gansukh would not be rushing. Still, in very little time, the quivers of both archers were empty.

“Extra point for Tarbagatai,” Subegei called. The crowd shouted, pleased with the performance of both men. “Let us go check the arrows,” Subegei said, and the crowd moved forward, sweeping both Tarbagatai and Gansukh up with it.

Gansukh let the group pass around him, and once the bulk of the men were past, he turned to his right and walked in a straight line, his eyes scanning the ground for the straight shaft of dark arrow.

He didn’t have to walk far. Munokhoi’s arrow was buried in the scrub grass, and only a short span of the shaft and the fletching were visible. Gansukh looked back, tracing the path of the arrow, and gauged from between which two ger Munokhoi had most likely shot the arrow. He stepped purposefully on the shaft, breaking it beneath his boot, and then went to join the others.

The flaps of Gansukh’s ger sagged open like the slack mouth of a dead man, and Gansukh knew what he would find inside. He paused, out of direct line with the opening, and looked around once more, checking for any out of the ordinary movement.

He had seen no sign of Munokhoi since the incident with the arrow at the archery range, but he knew that meant little. The ex-Torguud captain was watching him, stalking him throughout the camp. Waiting for an opportunity to strike with impunity.

The fact that Munokhoi hadn’t openly assaulted him meant the ex-captain was still aware of the consequences of assassinating another Mongol, especially one whose death the Khagan would notice. In some ways, that made him more dangerous.

Satisfied that there was no one watching him, Gansukh approached his ger and cautiously peeked inside. As he suspected, all of his gear was in disarray. Munokhoi had been here and had taken out his frustrations on Gansukh’s belongings. Gansukh wrinkled his nose as he smelled the acrid stench of urine. Munokhoi had done more than shred his shirts and slash all of his water skins; he had pissed all over everything.

Gansukh sighed, and calmly laced up the flaps on his ger. He had come to Karakorum with nothing more than what fit in a pair of saddlebags on his horse; he could survive being reduced to that again. In some ways, Munokhoi’s wanton destruction was a blessing-a reminder of who he really was. Most of the clothing he had acquired at Karakorum wasn’t all that functional out on the open steppe, and Gansukh felt oddly free of the weight of those belongings.

I am a Mongol clansman. I belong outside-the steppes beneath my feet, Eternal Blue Sky above my head. I want nothing else.

He had his knife, his sword, his bow, and his horse. On the first night of the trip, he had sewn a tiny pocket on the inside of his favorite jacket-a home for the lacquer box and the sprig. At the time he hadn’t given the urge to do so much thought, but now he was glad he had.

He did not understand the importance of the tiny twig, but it had meant something to the shaman and Ogedei. The sprig, in some ways, was the reason the Khagan was taking this trip. Ogedei had told him to hang on to it until the Khagan found himself worthy of it once more. Worthy of what? It didn’t matter; it was Gansukh’s job to keep it safe.

The afternoon shadows were getting long as Gansukh wandered past the fighters’ cages. There were only six men left now, and they all had suffered minor injuries during the last round of bouts for the Khagan’s entertainment. The red-haired giant had lost a chunk out of his left forearm when his opponent had desperately tried to chew his way out of the giant’s crushing bear hug. The one who braided his beard had almost lost an eye.

Gansukh drifted past Haakon’s cage, watching the young man as he calmly and slowly performed a series of exercises that worked the muscles in his upper body. He had stripped off his ragged shirt, and the cut across his chest was red and swollen, but it looked like it wasn’t infected. The bruise on his cheek had turned a sullen purple color.

Haakon noticed Gansukh and brought his hands together in the traditional greeting. Gansukh responded in kind, somewhat amused by the youth’s efforts to learn the local customs. “Hai, Haakon,” he said. “Your wound heals well?”

“Yes, friend Gansukh,” Haakon replied. “I am a valuable cow.” His accent had gotten better.

Gansukh couldn’t help but grin. “That you are.”

“Knife for me next time?”

Gansukh shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t-” He realized Haakon wasn’t speaking to him, and when he followed the Northerner’s gaze, he found a gray-haired Mongol standing a few paces behind him. In a flash, Gansukh read his history: the slight bow to his legs, the deep lines around his eyes, and the seasoned darkness of his aged skin. This man had been a horse rider his entire life.

“I suspected he knew our tongue,” the gray-haired man said as he came abreast Gansukh.

Bewildered, Gansukh tried to understand what had just transpired between the prisoner and the gray-haired rider. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Alchiq,” the rider said. “I was this one’s age when Genghis Khan brought the clans together. I have served the empire ever since.” He turned his attention to Gansukh. “You were at Kozelsk,” he said, “with Batu Khan.”

“I may have been,” Gansukh said.

Alchiq offered him a smile that didn’t go all the way to his eyes. “You were. You opened the gates so that the Khan’s army could take their revenge for their fallen brothers.”

Gansukh flinched. “You must be mistaken,” he said. “I was just a scout. I never…”

Haakon was staring intently at him, studying Gansukh’s face. Gansukh swallowed heavily and pushed away the memories of Kozelsk that were threatening to surface and changed the subject. “You gave the knife to the Kitayan.”

Alchiq nodded. “I did.” He too was watching Gansukh closely, watching for some reaction in Gansukh’s eyes to his admission.

“Why?”

“To see how well this one could fight. To see what he would do if he was given an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“The Torguud captain-Namkhai-is a very large man,” Alchiq said. He held up his fist, showing it to Haakon. “He has a big hand, yes?”

Haakon raised a hand and touched his bruised cheek. “Big hand,” he echoed.

Alchiq walked up to the cage, his hand still clenched in a fist. “I know you, Skjaldbr??